In March John passed the Foreign Service Orals. He graduated from grad school in May. Last month John ran Western States, and all was right with the world. Finally, I thought, we can take a break. No more talk of economics or electrolytes, international relations or interval workouts. I daydreamed about the fun family activities we could do with all this extra time. (What those fun family activities would be, I had no idea. But we had all that extra time to figure it out!) Life was good. And then, two days after we came home from Western States, John and I were lying in bed, trying to get back on east coast time. John mumbled something, something that sounded suspiciously like "50k in two weeks." But no, that couldn't be, I told myself. My season had begun when Western States finished. John knew the rules. No more races for the rest of the year. But really, it had sounded a lot like "50k." I rolled over. "I KNOW you're not talking about doing a 50k in two weeks." "Uh, nope, wouldn't dream of it. You must have misheard." John wisely scooted onto his quarter of the bed and went to sleep.
Hmph, I thought. I sure showed him. He won't be mentioning running again for months to come. The Fall of Mara has BEGUN!!!
Some time last week John lost his mind and asked if he could run the JFK 50-miler in November. The look I gave him could have melted steel, and John quickly tucked his tail between his legs and scurried off. But then the guilt began to creep in, pecking at the edges of my conscience like a beady-eyed rat. Guilt, that terrible, resolve-destroying beast, is John's greatest weapon against me. After all, John is a wonderful husband who never makes me feel bad for staying home with Jack and pursuing this writing nonsense when I could be generating an income. Who am I to keep him from his true passion? There are far worse hobbies than running, after all. Like gambling. Or porn.
So on Saturday, when John asked me what time the mail went out, and I asked him why and he replied, "Because the check for the JFK 50-miler has to be sent out today," I didn't strangle him as I was inclined to do, but instead told him, "If you go to the post office right now the check will probably make it." And he did. And it did.
And so it seems that the glorious Fall of Mara is not to be. This will be the Autumn of My Discontent, filled with more races and long Sunday runs, more talk of wasp larvae extract and enough Zappos orders to make Imelda Marcos proud. Because at the end of the day, we should all be lucky enough to be married to someone who allows us to follow our passion, wherever that road may lead.
And my road, as it turns out, will be leading me to Cancun, Mexico, for a girls trip at Thanksgiving. Holla!
|Hey, who ordered the giant nut?|